


between means and ends

by Friendly_Gayberhood_SpiderMan (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26709457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Friendly_Gayberhood_SpiderMan
Summary: Three days before General Lamarque's funeral, Enjolras and Combeferre have a discussion.
Relationships: Combeferre & Enjolras (Les Misérables)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	between means and ends

Combeferre is late to the meeting.

Normally this would not worry Enjolras--after all, it is not exactly rare for Combeferre to be so engaged in a dissection or critiquing the latest scientific theory that he loses track of time--but considering the news they had received yesterday, he cannot fathom any possible reason for Combeferre’s tardiness.

Another minute passes, at the end of which Combeferre remains decidedly absent. Enjolras sighs and stands, pushing aside a jumbled pile of newspapers, maps, and missives encrypted with a code so complicated that it is almost simple to decipher. He casts his eyes about the room, taking in the mix of familiar and not-so-familiar faces.

In one corner, Feuilly is talking to a group of workers, gesturing rapidly to accentuate whatever point he’s making. In another, Grantaire appears to be napping. Somewhere to the left, Jehan, Bahorel, and Joly are balancing wine glasses on their heads while trading important papers so fast one might think it was a game. And in the center, Courfeyrac and Bossuet are entertaining a group of students with some story or another, exchanging sly glances as they slowly move the conversation to increasingly inflammatory topics. 

Looking at everyone, Enjolras feels a smile play at the edge of his lips. He carefully makes his way out of the café, exchanging a wave with Courfeyrac and a nod with Feuilly, and steps out into the bright sunlight. He pauses for only a moment before starting his journey.

It only takes a few minutes to find Combeferre. The man is a street over from the Musain, crouched down in the middle of a plot of land that might have at one time been a park. His hand is cupped around something--a butterfly, Enjolras thinks, as he draws closer--and he is staring at it with such intensity that Enjolras is not quite sure if it would be prudent to disturb him.

Before he can come to a decision on the matter, Combeferre speaks. “I apologize,” he says, getting to his feet with a fluid motion that uses neither of his hands. “I am aware the funeral is in three days.” He doesn’t lift his eyes from the butterfly.

“Tell me,” Enjolras says, takes one step forward, another. “What troubles you?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was nothing?” Before Enjolras can answer, Combeferre lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Of course you wouldn’t. We have known each other too long for that, I suppose.”

Enjolras hums, waiting.

Combeferre turns abruptly, eyes finally meeting Enjolras’. There is something strange in his expression--sadness or pain or some mix of the two--but when he speaks, no trace of it shows. “Did you know,” he says, with a calmness that conceals everything and nothing, “That in some cultures, the taking of another being’s life is regarded as a sin.” He smiles; there is nothing that resembles happiness in it. “They mourn every killing, every death, whether intentional or accidental; humans and animals alike. Even for a creature as small as this.” He holds up the hand with the butterfly, directing his gaze back to it. “As insignificant.” His voice lowers. The butterfly crawls up the side of one finger. “Its loss would be felt.” The butterfly takes flight, its wings as light as Combeferre’s next words. “Perhaps that is the better way.”

“Combeferre-” Enjolras starts, but is interrupted.

“Do you believe in God?” Combeferre asks. Enjolras blinks.

“A rather weighted question, is that not?” he replies. “I believe in truth.”

“Must they be at odds?” Combeferre’s hands are clenched into fists where they have settled by his sides.

“I suppose not,” Enjolras answers, “No more than we two must be.”

Combeferre once again looks at Enjolras. And that something--the pain, the sadness--is back in full force. “We are humans.” But the words are hesitant, uncertain.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, “No more, no less.”

“No more, no less,” Combeferre echoes. And just like that, his expression fades, replaced by a fire that not so much burns as scorches. “And yet we kill each other like animals. Or maybe like vengeful deities. We slaughter our enemies, slaughter our brothers. Fight and fight and fight. And for what? What do we achieve? Another king, another morgue filled with bodies, another street painted red with blood, another-”

“The right to keep fighting,” Enjolras interrupts. “The right to have every fight after ours push forward. The right to strive for a future where there is no more need to fight.”

Combeferre stills, the sadness and pain returning. “You are right, of course.” He sighs. “But I fear the path to this future you speak of is paved with corpses.”

“If you have any objections to our plan of action, none of us would hold it against you if you were to-” Enjolras swallows- “That is to say-”

“I will be there.” Combeferre cuts in. He closes his eyes for a long moment before opening them again, directing his gaze at the sky. “I only wish….”

His words trail off, leaving the thought incomplete, but Enjolras understands it perfectly anyway.

“Yes,” he says, and it is more to himself than Combeferre. “So do I.”


End file.
